


Keep Alive

by LoneswaggingRanger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Issues, But he really does have a heart, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Michelle Jones sees through Peter's shit, Minor Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Richard Parker aka dickparker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is a dick at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23855065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoneswaggingRanger/pseuds/LoneswaggingRanger
Summary: “You and I both know The Accords isn’t as pretty as it seems.”“It’s necessary, kid.” Tony lifted a shoulder. “Look, I’m not asking you to agree with me. All I need is someone to fight on my team, and you’re the one I’m asking. I could be asking Ross to be on your ass now, or I could be asking Daddy Dearest Richard to-”“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Peter wasn’t certain if he wanted to strangle Tony or throw him out the window. Both were plausible solutions.*****In which Richard Parker is alive and Peter Parker goes through hell because of him.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 80
Kudos: 240





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for coming to read the result of my procrastination! This fic takes place around Civil War and Homecoming. Hope you enjoy ~~ :D

“Are we seriously doing this right now?”

Silence.

“I mean, wouldn’t it be easier if you guys just-” He veered to the left when a sword came piercing through, webs shooting towards where it came from. “-came out of the dark and all that? Unless you guys have night vision-which is super cool, by the way- but what about me, ya’ know?”

A gunshot rang from his right. The bullet missed him before it even came close.

“Yikes, guns _and_ swords,” He hoisted himself from the edge of the balcony to their grounds. “What are you guys- some sort of modern-traditional hybrid? Oooh, whoa-” He swung away from a stream of suspiciously purple liquid shooting his way. “ _Poison,_ too! You guys really digging deep for the whole diversity in villainy vibe, huh?”

A sharp tingle ran down his spine.

To say that he was prepared for the sudden flurry of attacks would be a severe understatement. He flung himself away from weapon after weapon-be they sharp, blunt, fast or slow, all were dodged with the exact fluidity he’d been trained to hone. His hands clasped onto the hilt of a dagger propelling his way before flinging it towards where he estimated another bullet seemed to originate from seconds before.

A pained snarl echoed across the room, followed by a low rumble of laughter.

“I’m going to guess you’re all a little cuckoo up here right now,” He tapped the side of his head conversationally. “I mean-”

“ _Just like your father,_ ” a voice whispered into the dark.

His blood froze in an instant.

“ _Smart yet aggravating._ ”

His fingers rolled themselves into fists by his side as his jaws clenched tight. His shoulders squared themselves into a framework of taut muscles ready for action. His neck cracked to relieve the stiffness in his joints. A mild frown formed behind his mask

“Guess you’re going down tonight, then.”

“ _I’d love to see you try._ ”

******

****WHiH World News, reported by Christine Everhart.** **

****“Seven individuals were found in the lower floors of Neil’s at 4 am this morning. They lied unconscious among a variety of weapons such as knives, swords, guns and some even hid syringes in their pockets. Each were proven to have consumed a** ** ****large** ** ****amount of opiates before their gang fight.** **

****All seven died before paramedics could arrive.”** **


	2. Keep Calm

Peter lunged for the toilet door, almost ripping its hinges apart. He sensed more than felt the nausea building up, the sick churning of bile and chyme against his stomach walls. He stumbled to his knees in front of a porcelain bowl as his trembling fingers reached to grip its sides. Several violent contractions of his abdominal muscles was enough to purge out all of this morning’s breakfast, and probably some of last night’s dinner as well.

 _Ugh, gross._

Peter spat out the last of the caustic fluid into the toilet. He spent the next ten minutes struggling to keep his breathing under control, to erase the reporter’s aggravating chirrup of _All seven died before paramedics could arrive_. She was still going on about how the police had found them and how drug overdose was the suspected cause of death, but all Peter could hear right now were their deafening screams from the night before.

 _Get a grip, Parker._ Peter forced himself off the floor. Pinching his nose so he wouldn’t sick up all over again, he wiped up the spots of vomit that had failed to reach the bowl before flushing the toilet to relieve himself of the stench. He chose to ignore his still shaking hands as he scrubbed them clean with an inhumane amount of soap under the scalding hot water. He also chose to ignore the quiet voice at the back of his mind noting that no amount of scrubbing could clean his hands from what had been done.

A cheery chime from his phone alerted him from his musings. Peter grimaced. He was _so_ not up for a lecture right now. All he wanted to do was curl under his covers till night came, which was when he’d probably pick on some poor criminal unlucky enough to meet him today. Or maybe he’d pay Hell’s Kitchen a visit, who knew.

“Good morning, sir."

“Good morning, Peter,” Richard Parker’s silky tone would have sounded soothing, except he was talking to Peter and nothing about the man felt soothing to Peter. It was an honest mystery how Parker Industries ever got the prestige that it did. “I hope you’re doing well today.”

“Just fine, sir,” Peter rolled his eyes at Richard’s faux decency. “You killed them,” Peter carefully kept any trace of the heat from slipping into his tone.

“Ten years and you still can’t get over such trivial matters?” Peter could hear Richard’s sneer over the phone. “I thought I trained you better than that. I thought I trained you better than to waltz into enemy ground like the obstinate child you are, with little to no back up and a spandex suit with no night vision.”

“It was your mission, sir,” Peter all but crashed into the leather sofa resting in the middle of his apartment. “Had to get to it as quick as I could.”

“I told you to wait for back up.”

“Obviously too slow, weren’t they?”

“I thought I trained that smart mouth out of you last year,” Richard’s tone switched from condescending to downright dangerous. “I could do it again, if you like.”

Peter clamped his mouth shut.

Richard clicked his tongue. “My point, Peter, is that you should have went for the kill the moment you could. I don’t care what you do when you swing around in Queens all day in that red and blue suit of yours, but when you’re working on my tasks, you _follow_ the training I gave you. Do you understand this, Peter?” 

“Understood, sir.” _Anything to get you to stop talking._

“Wonderful,” Richard paused just long enough to make Peter feel uneasy. “Have a good day then.”

“You too, sir.” 

*****

“Spider-Man.”

“Howdy, Horns!” Peter raised a hand in greeting, swinging himself onto the roof of Sacco Pizza . “Up for a fight?”

“It’s 2 in the morning.”

Peter cocked his head to the side questioningly. “Devils don’t need sleep, right?”

Daredevil’s lips quirked upwards.

*****

By the time Peter reached home, he was sore, bruised and once again regretting his decision to seek out the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The fight was wrapped up when Daredevil mentioned how Peter sounded like he was close to spewing blood for the second time. It was embarrassing, considering Daredevil had held out fine for a large duration of their duel while Peter scrambled around with his less than satisfactory sparing skills. Granted, both he and Daredevil had agreed to keep themselves blindfolded for the fun of it, and sight was kind of essential to function as Spiderman, but if Daredevil could fight without sight then so could Peter.

_So much for your spectacular training, Pops._

Peter contented himself with a mug of hot chocolate, humming along to that new pop tune kids his age seemed to be fond of these days. He fiddled around with his laptop for a bit, typing up that essay which should have been submitted last week. Priority was a very controversial term Peter' world.

A sudden 'ding' tore through the serenity he had been working in.

Peter sighed. There was only one person who knew his phone number anyway. 

**__ **

**_**dickparker:** _ ** _We need to talk about that September Foundation Grant from Stark, Peter._

Peter frowned at the wondrously absurd text.


	3. Keep Vigilant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I really want to thank all you peeps out there who actually read, kudos-ed or bookmarked this piece of word vomit of mine. It really makes my heart burst with joy, so...... THANK YOU!!!! Secondly, do let me know what you think or if there's anything I can improve on. Constructive criticism is most welcome!!! Alright, enough from me, please enjoy~

Peter sometimes suspected that the world was made to go against him. Now, with a monumental legend clad in red and gold standing in his doorway, Peter doubtlessly confirmed said hypothesis to be true. When the mask popped up to reveal that it was indeed Tony Stark Peter was looking at and not some weird hallucination his brain cooked up, Peter’s own jaw popped and dropped to an extent he himself never thought possible.

“You’re Peter Parker, right?”

“Um-uh, y-ye- I mean, um,” Peter shook his head frantically. “I’m not Peter Parker! I’m, um, Peter J-Jones, sir. What-what are you-I mean, why are you- here? Like, what are you doing here, I mean.”

 _Smooth, Parker, real smooth._ Peter let his brain slap himself four dozen times.

“Right,” Mr. Stark arched an eyebrow at him. “So you’re not Richard Parker’s son?”

Peter’s heart lurched up into his throat. What was just now a rush of giddy excitement turned into a series of frantic hammering against his chest. His heartbeat skyrocketed to a pace his lungs couldn’t keep up with as he fought to keep control over the over-sized mammoths frolicking around in his stomach. His fingers curled around the web-shooters in his pockets, immediately analysing the probabilities of winning in battle with Iron Man, which was close to nil with his awestruck mental state right now. His best bet was probably to swing himself over the railing behind Mr. Stark, and maybe flee a couple of blocks down south from the apartment. Could his webs reach that far? Maybe he had to do a backflip over Mr.Stark’s head to reach there? Or-

“Doesn’t matter,” Mr. Stark shrugged. “Not what I came here for anyway. Mind letting me into your humble abode?”

“S-sure,” Peter stepped aside, turning a deaf ear to the vehement warnings his brain screamed at him. Dangerous or not, this man was Tony _freaking_ Stark, and Peter would curse himself forever if he didn’t let Mr. Stark’s feet grace his apartment floors at least once. He tried hard not to gape when Mr. Stark’s suit came off with an inaudible click and flew away on its own.

“You could, um, sit there, I guess.” 

Mr. Stark looked down at the weathered couch Peter gestured towards, before turning around to take in the rest of Peter’s ‘humble abode’. His sorry excuse of a living space consisted of that one single-seater sofa, a 32-inch television set comfortably on the floor, a table currently piled with his schoolwork, as well as a measly kitchen space stuffed with Peter’s few pots and pans. Even the doorway to the toilet was cluttered with Peter’s belongings covered by a tattered cloth with garishly floral patterns. 

“For a billionaire’s kid,” Mr. Stark sat down gingerly, grimacing at the sound of the creaking sofa. “You sure live in pretty low standards.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m not a billionaire’s kid,” Peter muttered, but because Ben had always raised him as a polite young host while Richard had pummelled it in him, he added, “Do you need any coffee, sir? Or tea?”

“Don’t bother, kid,” Mr. Stark waved dismissively, before whipping out a phone seemingly out of nowhere. “Quick question of the rhetorical variety-” He raised his phone to show a scene of Peter in his suit, stopping a speeding car from ramming into a bus with his bare hands. “That’s _you_ , isn’t it?”

His fingers tightened. “That’s all on YouTube though, right? Special effects and all that.” Peter half-lifted his shoulders, trying very hard to look unperturbed.

“Even this?” Mr. Stark’s phone presented another set of Peter’s well-trained stunts in action against the gang of robbers he caught two blocks down his street last night. “And also, _this?_ ”

Peter’s eyes widened when his brain registered the battle Mr. Stark’s phone portrayed. It was the night with the drug guys. The ones Richard _killed_. A wave of cold panic flooded through his veins. “How did you get that?” Peter strained to maintain the evenness of his tone.

“Security footage here and there,” Mr. Stark replied flippantly. “Little bit of hacking. Little bit of tracking. Also how I know you’re Richard’s son, by the way. That guy’s really trying hard to bury you deep, huh? Guy doesn’t even let you go to a regular school anymore.”

“That’s not what you came here for.” Peter didn’t even bother masking his fury this time.

“No, it’s not,” Mr. Stark pocketed the phone nonchalantly, as if digging up a kid’s life secrets with his absurdly efficient prying abilities was a normal occurrence in his daily life. “But first I gotta’ ask, why?”

Peter blinked. “Why what?”

“Why do you do this? What’s your M.O? What gets you out of this couch every morning?”

 _Was this guy serious?_ He just single-handedly shifted all the angles of Peter’s self-constructed world and now he was questioning his motto? What right did he have to poke his nose even deeper into Peter’s life more than he already has?

Then, Peter looked at him. Not with unadulterated admiration and not with the rage he initially felt, Peter _really_ looked at him. What he saw was a man who wanted- no- who _needed_ to know if he was asking the right person for help. Mr. Stark needed _help_ with something. It shone so clearly in his eyes, albeit diminished parlously by the devil-may-care demeanour he threw at Peter’s face. Peter licked his lips, clasping his hands behind his back as he shifted from foot to foot. His eyes lowered to the patch of peanut butter he never noticed was smeared on his tiles.

“I…Y-You know how bad things happen, Mr. Stark? Like, really bad things you can’t control, or things you wished never happened to you?” At the man’s slow nod, Peter resumed after swallowing to relieve the tremendous dryness in his throat. “Sometimes, those things happen, and.. if you can do things I can do, but you don’t… th-they happen because of you.”

“Anyone know?” When Peter shook his head, Mr. Stark added, “Richard?”

“Hard to keep anything from him,” Peter sighed. _Just how much did this guy want to know?_ “But with all due respect, sir, I’m kinda’ sure you didn’t come all the way here just to delve into the finer elements of my life. You know me really well, point’s taken. What do you want me for?”

“I want you to catch some really famous bad guys. For the good of the world.”

“... this is about that Accords thing they talked about on TV, isn’t it?” Peter scowled at the floor. “You want me to catch Captain America. And that dude who bombed up Vienna International Centre.”

“Not you, specifically.” Tony said. “Team effort. Me, you, a couple of other guys… I spoke to Richard just now, by the way. He thinks you’re getting a grant and an internship. I could fly you over in a day.”

_That explains the text._

“Fight with the big leagues, kid. Could give some minor upgrades to that suit of yours too. I’m highly against spandex- bit too trashy for my taste, but I’m guessing you’ve been working on a low budget here? Webshooters too. I could hook you up with a bunch of cool combinations you won’t even know how to use. But just give me your webbing formula, that thing’s tensile strength is off the charts. Who manufactured them, by the way?”

“I did.” Peter replied, mostly because that was the easiest question he had to answer so far.

“Your dad buy you all the supplies?”

“Richard has nothing to do with this,” Peter’s scowl deepened. “Got ‘em from the garbage. Chemist warehouses. Nicked a few stuff from the school I used to go to.”

“That explains the acid stink coming from that pile over there by the toilet.” Mr. Stark nodded towards said direction, leaning further into Peter's couch like he owned the damn thing. “So you in, kid?”

“ _Hell_ no.” Peter shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, pointedly ignoring the way Mr. Stark’s head snapped in his direction. “You haven’t even given me the details yet. Where’s this fight happening? When’s it happening? Like, I really don’t want it messing up my online class schedule. I have mid-semesters coming up soon. And what sort of crime are we catching Captain America for, because no offense sir, the media isn’t exactly the best source of information when it comes to things like these.”

The terrible silence that followed his words made Peter so sure that an Iron Man suit was going to come crashing through his window at any minute and he’d have to engage in the worst battle known to mankind. Or maybe Tony Stark didn’t even need his suit. Maybe he could just snap his fingers and Peter would fall to the ground in reverence. Shit, what if he _could_ -

“How old are you again?”

Peter lifted his head to shoot Mr. Stark an incredulous stare. “Uh, F-Fifteen.” He scratched the back of his head. “…In two months.”

Mr. Stark fell silent again, lifting a hand to cover his eyes. Peter, for lack of anything better to do, turned towards the kitchen to brew some coffee. Mr. Stark looked like he needed it. When he returned with a glass of coffee in hand, Mr. Stark’s entire face was buried in his hands. Setting the glass on the floor beside Mr. Stark’s feet, Peter hung awkwardly beside him, hands clasped behind his back in anticipation.

When Mr. Stark’s head next rose from his hands, the eerie resolve in his eyes was unmistakable. 

“Have you ever been on a plane?” Mr. Stark picked up the glass with an air that simply spelled indifference, as if he wasn’t illegally recruiting a teenager to take part in a superhero battle while simultaneously threatening to rip apart said teenager’s life. When Peter failed to reply, Mr. Stark continued on for himself. “Don’t think Helicopter Dad ever let you go on one. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“You’re not bribing me with _planes_ , Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark took a long sip from his glass. “You ever been to Germany, kid?”

“For the last time, I’m _not_ going to fight your battle, Mr. Stark,” Peter folded his arms, ignoring the repeating siren of _Holy-shit-I’m_ _-actually_ _-talking-back-to-Iron-Man_ blaring in his mind. “You and I both know The Accords isn’t as pretty as it seems.” 

“It’s necessary, kid.” Tony lifted a shoulder. “Look, I’m not asking you to agree with me. All I need is someone to fight on my team, and you’re the one I’m asking. I could be asking Ross to be on your ass now, or I could be asking Daddy Dearest Richard to-”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Peter wasn’t certain if he wanted to strangle Tony or throw him out the window. Both were plausible solutions. Tony arched a questioning eyebrow, and god _damn_ that stupid billionaire face staring back at him like _P_ _e_ _ter_ was the one being absurd.

Peter was pretty sure he was exhaling fire out of his nose right now. “When’s the flight.”

*****

_It was dark. So very dark._

_"Get up.”_

_Peter’s blood curled at the tone of his father’s voice._

_“Peter. I said, get up.”_

_Peter tried, he really did. He tried to disregard the throbbing pain in his abdomen, tried to force his probably broken legs to move at least a little, but all that managed to do was wring out a pained moan from the back of his throat._

_A merciless kick to his chest sent Peter cowering back into a fetal position._

_“Stand up and fight me, Peter.”_

_He couldn’t. Peter didn’t even know why. Maybe it was because he couldn’t see. Maybe it was because of the electrocution training he had to go through just hours before. Maybe it was because his body’s healing factors couldn’t keep up with the way he was injuring himself. Maybe it was because his legs felt as if they had just been beaten to pulp by some newly-engineered being his father created specially for his training. Whatever the reason, Peter knew there wasn’t any strength left in him to fight anymore._

_“PETER!”_

_Peter cringed at his father’s roar. Father was angry now. He was going to put him in that pitch black room again, with no food, no water and no human contact for who knows how long and oh, Peter really couldn’t have that. There was no way he'd survive any of that again. Whimpering, Peter fought to obey his father’s orders, but his efforts were thwarted by an invisible weight crashing in from all sides. Each time he fought, the weight shoved him back down, its heavy hands pushing against Peter’s already wheezing lungs. Peter felt as if he couldn't breathe, as if the sole reason his heart could still beat was being stolen from his grasp._

_“Enough, Richard,” Ben’s voice emerged from nowhere. “He’s obviously too tired for anything right now.” Peter let out a shuddering breath at hearing Ben’s familiar gravelly tone, his hands reaching blindly towards where he assumed Ben was. Ben was here. Peter would be okay now. He would be._

_However, just as his fingers latched onto the cotton fabric of Ben’s sweater, the scent of fresh blood shook him out of his brief reprieve. Warning bells started to chime in Peter’s ear, but at that moment, Peter knew he was too late. Suddenly, Peter was in front of that restaurant again. Suddenly, he was crashing down on his knees again, watching the crimson of Ben’s blood pool out upon the rocky pavement, washed away by the cold torrents of rain._

_“No, no, no, no, no,” Peter whispered under his breath, hands rushing over to where Ben’s pulse was supposed to be, hoping against hope to find that reassuring thump against his fingers. There was none._

_“What have you done?” Father was back again._

_“I-I’m s-sorry,” Peter choked back a sob, rolling back onto his strained knees._

_“What have you done, Peter?”_

_Peter tasted salt in the rain for a while, before realising it was just his own tears cascading down his cheeks._

_“Answer me!” Father was shouting again, and this time there was no Ben to save him. Serves him right. “Tell me, why couldn’t you save him? I trained you for this. Answer me, Peter.”_

_The pouring rain continued to ram onto Peter’s quivering form._

_“ANSWER ME, PETER!”_

“Peter!"

Peter’s eyes snapped open with a jolt. He shoved back against the rough hands jostling his arm, mindless with grief and rage. How dare Richard blame him for this, it wasn’t Peter’s fault. It wasn’t

_It was._

“Hey Jones-boy, it’s just me.

Peter’s mind cleared slightly. Right. He was on a plane. No Richard here, just him and Mr. Hogan. Peter willed his breaths to slow, his tense shoulders lowering as his arrhythmic heartbeat eased ever so slightly.

“Rough night?” Mr. Hogan’s gruff tone did little to help Peter’s calming down session.

Nevertheless, it still counted as a valiant effort and Ben had always taught Peter to recognise the heart others had for him, however scarce they might be.

“Must’ve been because of all that snoring you did last night, Mr. Hogan.” Peter let a trained smirk adorn his features.

If Mr. Hogan noticed the way Peter’s voice trembled or the way his hands still couldn’t stop shaking, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he snorted, “Yeah, whatever. Plane’s landed, kid. Fight’s happening soon, so you better get your shit together.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” Peter mock-saluted Mr. Hogan as they alighted the plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have reached the end! Thank you again. See you next chap! :D


	4. Keep Smart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi peeps! Thanks for waiting! I feel like I should have mentioned this earlier, but I guess I'll tell you now that this Peter has been SpiderMan-ing for a bit longer than MCU Peter, so his suit has already developed to his spandex phase. There is also, as you wonderful readers might have noticed, a mild change in Peter's character as a result of Richard's 'training'. This chapter basically highlights how this Peter differs from MCU Peter, with the way he thinks and reacts differently to things as well as the way his senses and skills have been trained to a higher extent than MCU Peter. :) Hope you enjoy~

“This is… _insane_.”

Contrary to what Mr. Stark’s note implied, this was not, in actual fact, a minor upgrade. It was instead, a _whole new freaking suit_. Peter’s fingers traced the seams of the fabric (definitely not spandex), inspecting the visual filters Mr. Stark had fitted in his eyes. Damn, each eye even had two high-power focusing lenses which would _totally_ help him when he needed to attack from afar and what the heck, Mr. Stark totally revamped his web-shooters. What was then a simple lever projectile device now turned into an _epic_ microchip-infused electronic design with probably a thousand distinct functions. How the _hell_ did Mr. Stark get all this done in one day?

Peter hastily threw the suit over his head, slipping into it with seamless ease and _wow_ , it matched his physique once he pressed the spider emblem embedded at the core of his chest. The texture of the suit felt almost exactly like his original streamlined spandex, which meant that swinging around was going to be just as efficient as Peter was used to.

“Mr. Hogan?” Peter called. “Can I just say something?”

A grunt came in reply to Peter’s awed tone.

“This,” Peter flung his arms in the air to better demonstrate his point. “-is literally the coolest thing I’ve ever seen and today, is the best _freaking_ day of my life.” A wild grin spread all over Peter’s face as Mr. Hogan’s eyeballs rolled right out of their sockets. “Like, this is literally the best suit I’ve ever worn- Look at the eyes! Look at the amazing spider logo! Feel the material, Mr. Hogan, feel it!” Peter all but flung the mask in Mr. Hogan’s face.

“Kid,” Mr. Hogan pushed the mask aside so that it didn’t mercilessly smother his face. “I literally do _not_ give a shit right now.”

Peter laughed. “You’re just jealous that I get a cool suit and you don’t.”

That probably earned him another heated glare from Mr. Hogan’s general direction. Peter wasn’t really paying attention. He was too busy inspecting the _amazing_ eyes on his mask.

“Peter.”

“Hmm?”

Mr. Hogan vigorously jabbed a thumb from Peter’s mask to his face. “ _Put the damn mask on._ ”

*****

"Underoos!"

Peter immediately felt bad after he landed with Captain America’s shield on his left arm. For one thing, it was _Captain America’s_ shield. For another, Peter had heard Captain’s reasons for defying the government-since Mr. Stark had remained ever so elusive over said fact- and from what he heard, the war veteran just wanted to protect the world from some mad doctor. Sounds pretty valid to Peter.

“H-hi,” Peter piped up, braving the tension hanging thick in the air. “Sir, Captain America, I’m-uh-Spiderman. Big fan.” Peter raised one hand to his forehead in a mandatory salute, purposefully oblivious to the series of deadpans Mr. Stark shot his way.

“Yeah, we don’t really need that right now, kid.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Then Mr. Stark went on to dial the tension up to infinity with his harsh jibes and threats. A great half of the stuff he mentioned, Peter didn’t have a clue. Proved just how much of the situation Mr. Stark had let him in on. Despite himself, Peter felt a small flare of indignation puff out of his nose. What was he supposed to be, just another soldier at Mr. Stark’s beck and call just because he needed the extra muscle? Why recruit someone to be part of your team when you won’t even _tell_ them your objective, or at least, some semblance of a plan?

_Even Richard never gave him so vague a task._

That was when Peter sensed it. A mild weight resting atop the edge of the shield. He stared down at the little man with a helmet standing akimbo on Captain’s shield.

_Huh._

When the little man turned into a big man who stole the shield right off his arms, Peter wasn’t surprised at all.

*****

“That thing is totally not obeying Newton’s laws of motion,” Peter scowled behind his mask when the shield returned to Captain’s hands for the third time.

“Listen, kid,” Captain stood with Truth, Justice and the American way exuding out of his patriotic form. “There’s a lot going on here that you don’t understand.”

“You don’t say,” Two strings of webs latched themselves onto both of Captain’s legs.

Captain’s boots dug deep into the ground. “Then why do you fight?”

Peter twisted his webs the other way round, forcibly uprooting the good Captain from his rigid stance before slamming him harshly upon tarmac. Severing the string of web connected to Captain’s legs, Peter swiftly snapped his wrist over to the shield that had fell conveniently beside the groaning Captain. Once the shield was securely fastened on his arm, Peter chortled, “To finally meet the great Captain America in person, duh! You’re, like, the only sane Super Soldier who saved the country in World War II, and also, the only man in history to come back 70 years later just to serve America once again. I mean, we’re not in the best circumstances right now but-” Peter lifted a shoulder. “America doesn’t deserve you, man.”

“It really doesn’t, does it.” Captain rose from the ground, rubbing his abdomen probably to lessen the pain erupting from the mother of all bruises forming in that area.

Before Peter had time to wince at the thought of injuring yet another fellow human being, his face was abruptly caught full with a glowering soldier grappling him for his shield.

_Idiot. You stood too close._

Close combat had never been Peter’s forte no matter how hard Richard had tried to infix in him, the reason being this: Each time Captain landed a punch on him, Peter felt as though the air was being punched right out of his poor lungs. Even with the shield to protect himself against Captain’s rapid blows, Peter could still hear the attacks coming so close to him and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Suddenly, Peter wasn’t riding the adrenaline thrill of fighting the legendary Captain America anymore.

He was frantically battling Richard for dear life in that cramped dark space. Snarling when his kick missed Richard’s groin, Peter utilized his gifted strength to block each and every assault that bombarded his way. He practiced the choreographed dance of offense and defense pummeled so deeply into his instincts because if he didn’t, he might as well be kissing his undeserved existence farewell. Richard shoved him further backwards, forcing him to retreat to where he had come from earlier.

Peter felt his back collide against cold metal. Shit.

_This is an experiment, Peter. You are not to move at all, or there’ll be no meals for the week._

Peter’s entire form stilled.

“You got heart, kid.”

Peter blinked the tears away from his eyes, taking in short stuttering breaths with Captain’s forearm pinned against his neck. He couldn’t even be bothered to resist when Captain simply picked the shield off his arm.

“Fight like you’ve been trained for more years than you’ve been alive,” Captain added.

Peter gasped when his throat was released, heaving in several gulps of fresh air as he clasped onto his knees for the much needed support.

“Where you from, kid?”

“Queens,” Peter _hated_ the cheeky grin sliding across Captain’s features.

“Brooklyn.”

*****

In retrospect, flinging around for a thumbs up while clinging onto the opponent’s torso was definitely one of the most senseless acts Peter had ever done, falling second only to that one time he decided to sneak cereal up his nostrils so that he would have more to eat after training. Richard never let him live that one down. He was eight.

A sharp ache surged through Peter’s frame.

_That’s the fifth time I’ve been flung to the ground today. Hope you’re proud, Pops._

A hand clamped onto his in a rough grip. An embarrassing yelp left Peter's lips. Gritting his teeth, he steeled himself for the battle that was sure to come, hands dashing frantically against his opponent. 

“-uess who? Hi. It’s me.”

It was Mr. Stark. Not Richard.

_Same difference._

“Hey,” Peter breathed, shoulders slumping against the pavement. “Be up in a sec.”

“Yeah, no,” Peter shrunk under what he thought to be Mr. Stark’s disapproving stare. “You’re done.”

“What?”

“You did a good job. Stay down.”

Peter’s head darted towards Mr. Stark, eyes searching his features for some proof that his words were a lie. No way Mr. Stark was letting him off the hook this easy. He hadn’t even broken three ribs yet.

“I’m good, sir.” _This had to be a trick._

 _“_ Nope, stay down, kid,” Mr. Stark pushed Peter back.

“But I-”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. You didn’t wanna’ come anyway.” Mr. Stark’s repulsor’s blasted him up and into the uncharacteristically gentle blue sky.

But was Peter Benjamin Parker going to let Tony Stark go after dragging him halfway across the world, only to tell him that he’s done enough, as if Peter was a weak baby who needed coddling, as if he thought Peter couldn't fight, even though that was literally the only reason he brought him here in the first place?

_Hell no._

Peter’s webs trailed after Mr. Stark, latching onto the feet of his alloy suit.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“My job.” Peter replied simply, both hands locked on the strand of web hanging dangerously from the Iron Man suit.

“I’m three thousand feet off the ground right now.”

“I know. I had to jump on a building to get here.”

Peter tried not to smirk when a frustrated growl escaped Mr. Stark’s vocal chords.

*****

The sixth time Peter fell to the ground, it was for a better cause.

He had swung himself all the way above Mr. Stark when Vision’s head beam (laser? Peter wasn’t sure.) shot at the Falcon. By the time his webs completed a 360° turn, Iron Man was whizzing towards the ground at neck-breaking speed. His eyes honed in on the person they were chasing.

Shit. They weren’t chasing.

In a moment of spontaneous inspiration, Peter slipped himself all the way to Mr. Stark’s waist, using his teeth to keep hold of the dangling web. One hand aimed specifically to catch the rapidly falling Colonel Rhodes with his webs, while the other haphazardly strung out a sort of net as they neared the ground.

When a flash of verdant green came into view, Peter quickly released himself from the Iron Man suit, taking no notice of the enraged yell questioning his sanity. No time for that. A single strand of web hauled the hulking chunk of metal that made up the War Machine towards him before Peter wrapped both he and Colonel Rhodes with his dense web net.

 _The fall shouldn’t be too bad now._ Closing his eyes, Peter readied himself for the inevitable thud. They stayed closed even as he came to a relatively soft landing. Relatively.

He heard the tell-tale clang of metal settling beside him.

“Friday. Vitals.” 

“Scanning,” an Irish tone chirruped. “Heart rate normal for Colonel Rhodes, elevated for Spider-Man. Mild fractures on the backbone for both of them but no broken bones detected. Spider-Man is awake, sir. I would advise taking off his mask with haste.”

Mr. Stark all but ripped Peter’s mask from his face. Dropping to his knees, his eyes remained shadowed by tangled locks of hair as he unveiled Colonel Rhodes’ mask. Predictably, his eyes were secured shut.

Peter let his head fall back, pulling in sharp inhales to steady his fumbled mind.

“Couldn’t have just caught him with your webs?”

“Too far down,” Peter choked out. “Didn’t know how far the webs could reach. And I’d have to fight against the army of wind and dust blowing against our weights. Best possible solution I could think of. Sorry.”

Mr. Stark shook his head so vehemently Peter was afraid his neck might snap in half. “No, kid. You did good. You did real good.”

“Thanks,” Peter pursed his lips to stop the smile tugging at his lips. A beat later, he mumbled, “We still lost them, though.”

_I still failed._

“Not all,” Mr. Stark pointed towards the Falcon swooping down from the sky. “But honestly, kid, I don’t give a damn right now. You’re safe. Rhodey’s safe. Fuck the Accords if it’s going to cost me two more lives.”

It was then that Peter realized Tony Stark and Richard Parker were two _very_ different people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying till the end! The next update will most probably end up in the first or second week of June because I need a little time to get my chapter parts in order. Also, I, like Peter, have mid-semesters coming up, so, I guess I'll apologize in advance for the wait to come. Love ya, peeps! <3


	5. Keep Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, folks! Thanks for tuning in! I got this thing out earlier than expected, so here you go! Enjoy~~

The lilting backdrop of melodic harmony swathed Peter in a sort of ease he hadn’t felt ~~since Ben died~~ since forever. His fingers tapped in sync with the chorus beat, inaudibly humming after each and every turn the music took. Peter knew it was irrational to let one’s guard down so easily in the presence of another, let alone someone whom he’s only just met for less than a week. He knew this. And yet.

“Hey, kid.”

Peter’s eyes flitted to the side, mildly registering Mr. Stark’s cat-like sprawl. As usual, his eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses- probably the fifth pair Peter had seen him wear since he met him. Apparently the fact that they were passengers in a car at godforsaken _mid_ _night_ didn’t matter too much to Mr. Stark’s fashion sense.

“Thinking about something?”

“...No,” was Peter’s automatic reply.

“Really?” Mr. Stark’s eyes peered over his shades to meet Peter’s doe-brown ones. “Then why the long face?”

“What-no! This is my resting face.”

Mr. Stark turned away with a shrug. Just when Peter deemed himself safe from further conversation regarding his very stable mental well being, Mr. Stark waved absently at him, “You can lean back, you know. Cushion’s not made out of steel. Your back’s gonna’ be pretty sore if you keep on like that.”

“I- uh, thank you, sir.”

Mr. Stark pursed his lips. “Aren’t kids like you supposed to be obsessed with your phones or something? Posting your little mishaps and shenanigans on Twitter or Snapgram?”

“I would never,” Peter faked an affronted tap to his chest, earning himself an amused huff. “Bringing a phone on a business trip is _way_ too unprofessional.”

“Right, and a fifteen year old should know all about being professional.”

“I’m not an _amateur_ , sir.”

“You post your own stunts online all the time.”

“Yeah, but this is yourmission, sir. Had to do it as you would want it. Pretty sure you wouldn’t like another camera shoved in your face, right?”

Once again, Peter ended up at the receiving end of Stark’s branded purse of lips. He seemed to be getting that a lot lately. Peter rubbed continuous circles over his palm, shifting in his seat slightly. “Anyway, um, when will you need me next, sir?”

_Pathetic. You’re just begging to be used, aren’t you._

Peter pointedly ignored the leering ghost haunting the back of his mind.

“We’ll call you.”

_Subtext: He doesn't need you._

“Absolutely, sir. I’ll be there when you call.” 

“Same to you, Sticky McGee. Ring up Happy whenever you need to. He’ll be happy to help.” A short pause followed. “Pun intended.” Mr. Stark thumped his foot on the driver’s seat, to which Mr. Hogan replied with a grunt of either approval or annoyance. Peter couldn’t tell.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Also, don’t call me that. Makes me feel old,” Mr. Stark frowned. “You saved Rhodey. That’s earned you enough Tony rights, which includes calling me by my name.”

“Okay,” Peter mumbled to Mr. Stark’s polished shoes.

“Great,” Mr. Stark himself didn’t actually look so great, with the way he was ferociously yanking at the bridge of his nose. “Just lean back and relax, kid. Long road ahead of us.”

*****

“This suit,” Peter felt the pubescent edge to his tone give away his usual guise of maturity, but decided that he couldn’t care less right now. “ _Tony Stark_ gave me this suit.”

“So you’ve said.”

“No, seriously,” Peter stretched his arms over his head. “I mean- this thing costs _millions_! And he just. Gave it to me. Just like that. Which means I can use it. Which means he’s-”

“Which means he’s a billionaire with just enough money to entice you,” Daredevil was wrapping a faded red cloth over his hand, head tilted to one side in focus.

“Aw, don’t be like that, DD,” Peter ambled closer. “Come on, just look at the design of this thing. The spider logo. The mask. The freaking _webshooters_.” Peter raised his wrists to where he approximated Daredevil’s eyes to be under the mask.

“They all look very fine, I’m sure,” Daredevil replied dryly. “Now, if you’re quite done, do go through the part where you got your ass handed to you by Captain America again. In more detail this time, if you don’t mind.”

“Did I not mention that I slammed his face to the ground?”

“Multiple times,” Daredevil pinched the sides of the cloth, testing its tautness. “You skimmed over the part where you lost the shield, though.”

Peter lowered his arms with a deflated sigh. “Y’know, at times like this, I feel unloved. Unloved, Horns.”

Daredevil responded with a semi-joking kick to his shin.

*****

He knew it was stupid. He knew that, logically speaking, no one would ever give a rat’s ass about how he helped this nice old lady cross the street, or how some girl’s kite got stuck on a tree. He knew that Mr. Hogan was probably tired after receiving two month's worth of voicemail comprising his ridiculous pleas for the next mission, camouflaged under the pretense of his timely ‘reports’. He knew this. And yet, here he was, leaning against the freezing glass of the phone booth, dialing the well-rehearsed number at god knows what hour.

“H-hi, Mr. Hogan,” Peter tried to hide the shiver in his voice. “It’s, um, kind of late, but I just wanted you to know that I’m always open, yeah? Anything Mr. Stark needs me for, I’m here. And, um, I had this training session thing with Daredevil today. It’s, kind of a thing we have. Uh, Daredevil’s the vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen, by the way. He’s, like, the best guy to duel with ’cause he has these rad skills that could totally take out a dozen men if he wanted to. Heck, he could even do it under five minutes! Point is, I- mother-what-”

A thunderous crash brought Peter stuttering out of his sentence. Five silhouettes were huddling into the bank opposite his phone booth.

“-uh I’m dealing with a bank robbery too, I guess.”

Peter clicked the phone in place before swinging over to the bank with a now demolished door.

*****

A man almost died. A cat almost died. A man and cat almost died in a burning shop.

He replayed the scene over and over again in his head as he webbed his way home, as he reached for the keys to his apartment door. Surely, if he had disarmed the robbers instead of quipping them, they wouldn’t have managed to shoot him. If he had covered the walls with at least some sort of web padding, those weird-ass purple beams would have stayed mostly contained in his building. If he had done that, that man wouldn’t have lost his source of living. If he had-

“How was Germany?”

Peter’s eyes jerked up to find none other than Richard Parker seated comfortably on his couch, arms and legs crossed in a manner that simply spelled ‘Peter, you’re in _so_ much trouble’.

“Come in and lock the door behind you.”

_Run, you idiot. Run while you can._

He complied. The door fell shut.

“So, Stark Foundation?” Richard beckoned Peter to stand before him with a crook of his finger, much like how one would call for a dog. “Lovely grant, 10000 dollars! What a feat.”

Peter gagged on the exaggerated amount of saccharine infused in Richard’s voice.

“Marvelous suit, by the way,” Richard was still speaking in that sweet tone. “Did you get that from the internship as well?”

Peter took a deep breath. _Get yourself together, Parker._

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, eyes trained stiffly on Richard’s black-socked feet. Why hadn’t he noticed the extra pair of shoes in his doorway when he came in?

“Really?” Richard balanced both elbows on his knees, resting his head between both hands with a staged air of innocence. “So, he just _happened_ to know your full name which I worked so hard to keep secret? He just _happened_ to know _my_ address? He just _happened_ to need you in Berlin, where good ol’ Captain America escaped from two months ago? And you, just _happened_ to forget bringing your tracker phone every time since then?”

Peter kept his neck bent low.

“That’s dangerous, Peter,” Richard clicked his tongue. “You know it is. Flying halfway across the world, with some stranger who wants you only for the strength that _I_ gifted you. A stranger who knows who you are, who knows who _I_ am. Imagine if I were ambushed by a swarm of Iron Man suits while you hitched off on your oh-so-exclusive heroes parade.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Of course you are,” Richard examined the glass Peter had used to serve Mr. Stark, now full of thick self-blended coffee. He rolled it gently, letting its contents rock against the sides, shaking just as much as Peter’s clenched fists. “Do you remember what I told you when I put you here?”

“To lay low. To make sure no one knew who or where I was, sir.”

“That’s right,” Richard lifted himself off the couch. “And, pray tell, why did I tell you that?”

“To keep me safe, sir,” Peter’s feet bounced against the floor. There was always only one outcome after Richard made him repeat his sayings back to him.

“Yes, Peter. To keep you safe. To keep youalive.”

The glass stopped shaking. Peter’s hands did not.

“I keep you alive, because it’s my duty,” Richard towered over Peter, his arms still folded. “Because, unlike you, I take _care_ of my family. Because, even though you’re an impertinent piece of trash, you’re still the only fucking Parker I have left.”

If possible, Peter shrunk even closer to his pounding chest.

“You know the drill.” The glass met the ground with a piercing crash.

Peter’s head went swirling at the command. His muscles moved on their own accord, stripping off his suit till he was nothing but bare skin and flesh. He fell forward on his knees, not even bothering to register the coffee now dribbling on them, quailing at the menacing swish of his father’s belt.

_Ten years and this is where you end up._

“I’ve given you your freedom. Your little red-and-blue show, I’ve let you.”

Peter flinched at the sound of strap on wood.

“I took your mother from you, that’s true,” The belt tapped deceptively on Peter’s quivering form. “But you took Ben from me as well. I can’t let you take you from me as well. Do you understand this, Peter?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good.”

Peter bit his lip as leather and metal came raining down, cracking gleefully at each lick upon his ramrod straight back. He tried not to think about the suit lying just millimetres away from him. He tried not to think about how, without the suit, he really _was_ nothing but bare skin and flesh, recalcitrant and laughably weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...... :)


	6. Keep Moving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya folks! This one's a bit of a short one, 'cause I was trying to maintain this chapter as a fluffy one. Hope it worked? Anyways, do enjoy!!!!!!

“Crap, Crap, Crappity-hell,” Peter’s sing-song voice pranced in the empty room. His arm was bent behind with impossible flexibility, as he dabbed delicately on the mosaic of welts and bruises Richard had left him with. He was crouched awkwardly upon the floor, limbs a tangle for the sole purpose of getting iodine on his scathed back. “Y’know, pops, maybe we should change the whole discipline thing to be somewhere more reachable? A little practicality never harmed anyone. Unless you were secretly training me to be a gymnast- which, by the way, is totally fine. I’ll take that over this any other day. But man, this is- ow- crap-” His back was going to be a seared mess by the time he was done.

A steady stream of jibes continued to blur each wave of pain slicing through his torso.

His vision finally cleared once he was done bullying his wounds, albeit immersing him too quickly into the ruthless shine of light on glass. Others might revere at how golden streaks of elegance peaked through the folds of his blinds, how they graced his floor with such effervescent glows. Some might add that this was the most resplendent scene such a drab apartment could ever achieve. On good days, Peter might even agree with said sentiment. Unfortunately, right now, with his head throbbing and his back aching from barely two hours sleep, Peter’s haywire senses were inscribing every single lux of illuminance into his already overloaded brain.

In simpler terms, his eyes burned from the light.

Shielding them gingerly with one hand, Peter stretched his cramped limbs, forcing himself up in one wheezing huff. He wisely sidestepped the remaining scraps of glass threatening to graze his foot soles. Maybe that was why Richard broke it. Or maybe he delighted in depriving Peter of the only cup he owned in this household. Who knew.

Peter ran a tired hand through his matted hair. _Guess I’m buying myself paper cups next time._

*****

The door came open with a cheerful chime.

Peter tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, forcibly obliterating each wince from his features as he trudged into the store. The only perk of Richard choosing to stow him away in a Queen’s apartment was that he chose to stow him away in _this_ Queen’s apartment. Not only was it strategically located within vicinity of multiple food outlets and stores, it was also one of the districts most susceptible to crime. Good for Peter, good for Spidey. Also, there was-

“Yo, dork.”

Peter lifted his head to meet a familiar pair of hazel eyes, raising his brows at the customary middle finger poised lithely on the cashier countertop. Her dark curls shaded the mirthful twinkle in her eyes as deft fingers twirled the pencil she had been sketching with.

“That how you greet all your customers?”

“Only you, dickhead,” MJ drawled. She was always like that, all biting sarcasm and inappropriate humour- not that that was a problem- if anything, that only seemed to make Peter all the more fond of her.

“You look sour today,” She noted. “Like your relative’s cat just vomited all over your shoes and scratched the shit out of your face.”

_Close enough._

“My only glass broke.”

“We don’t sell glass here at 7/11.”

“You sell paper cups, though,”

“Just buy a water bottle, broke-shit,” MJ leaned further upon the cashier counter, resuming her lazy scrawling on her sketchpad.“Only thing you need cups for is coffee, which you don’t drink. Blasphemy, in my opinion.”

“I drink tea, darling,” Peter sauntered over to the section labelled ‘Party Items’, idly riffling through the party hats, packeted candles and balloons on the way. A mild grin alighted his features when he caught MJ glaring at the mess he was making behind him.

Though, the grin was promptly wiped off his face when he returned to the counter as MJ remarked, “Your red’s showing, by the way.”

Peter’s brain experienced the speediest short circuit known to mankind.

_She saw the suit, Peter. She saw the suit peeking out from under your shirt and now she knows and Richard’s going to know about this and god, if Richard kills her because of this, Peter, you are so-_

“Your ears, I mean.”

An involuntary breath came tumbling out of his lungs.

“My _what?_ ” The exasperation in his tone didn’t even need to be staged.

“Ears,” MJ’s fingers tapped the sides of her own auricles. “Think they couldn’t handle the word darling coming out of your mouth.”

“You’re impossible, MJ.”

“And you’re a nerd,” MJ handed him his cups and a receipt, mocking smirk at the ready. “Stay safe out there, dork.”

Chuckling, Peter flipped her off on the way out.

*****

By the time evening rolled by, Peter had received a total of ten texts. The former nine berated him for his late night escapades, showing him articles about the damage he had caused, about the now destroyed Delmar’s Deli Groceries. Apparently it sold the best sandwiches in Queens.

_Richard doesn’t even like bread._

Peter tapped on the latest tenth, mentally preparing himself for yet another rant about how irresponsible his actions were, how he should have observed before acting, how he should have- Peter’s eyes narrowed in on the text. It wasn't a rant. 

**_**dickparker:** _ **

**_**VENUE: JEWEL AVENUE CROSSING, QUEENS, NEW YORK CITY** _ **

**_**TIME: TONIGHT, 11p.m. (BE THERE EARLY)** _ **

**_**ISSUE: SUSPECTED DEALERSHIP OF EXTRINSIC WEAPONS** _ **

_Note: Assigned by S.H.I.E.L.D. Do it well._

Peter closed his eyes. God have mercy on his poor back.

**_**pp:** _ ** _On the go at 7 p.m., sir._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! :D


	7. Keep Failing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome again! I tried my best to make sure the scene shifts weren't too choppy but I might have messed up a bit somewhere? So apologies in advance if this feels jarring to any of you~ Anyways, as usual, hope you enjoy this one!

Drowning. He was drowning.

Peter’s heart pounded against his chest, arms flailing to keep afloat. All around him water and darkness flooded his lungs with anything but air, engulfed him wholly as he fought against the merciless jaws of shifting waves. Father was leering at him from above saying, _I trained you for this, you imbecile, move those useless limbs of yours and swim._ And oh, was he trying to, but legs were no help when they felt like lead. No matter how hard he thrashed, his body still sank deeper, deeper, deeper…… Peter wondered briefly if this was what death felt like, arms reaching out towards light, mouth slipping open and gasping for air because he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t-

Then came the metallic whir of repulsors, and Peter was lifted blissfully into air.

******

Things moved so fast. One moment he was swooping in to save a man from being shot, then in another he was being flung underwater by a vulture man with green eyes for chasing a weapons truck. Next thing he knew, he was ripping his mask off, coughing and spitting in front of Iron Man himself.

“H-how’d you f-find - _crap-_ ” Wracking coughs threatened to tear his throat apart.

“Easy there, tiger.” Peter flinched away from the alloy arms half-reaching towards him because metal was cold and he was cold and Mr. Stark was so mad and _Richard_ was going to be so mad but everything still hurt like hell and he really couldn’t breathe-

_Get. It. Together. Parker._

Peter inhaled sharply, forcing himself to register the rush of warmth emanating from his suit. He felt his shoulders slacken, his breathing falling calm for him to wheeze, “Tracker in my suit?”

“Gee kid, a little gratitude never harmed anyone.”

“S-sorry,” Peter ducked his head down. “Um, thank you for coming all the way here, sir.”

“Oh, I’m not actually here,” The suit’s mask snapped open to reveal a depressingly hollow crater. “But I’ll take the thanks, thanks.”

_He’s not actually here. What did you expect, Peter? That he would appear to coddle you just because you couldn’t keep your shit together? Grow up. Richard taught you better than this._

“Care to explain how this little adventure went wrong?”

“I- um,” Peter felt someone else’s tracker vibrate against his suit pockets. “It really shouldn’t concern you, sir. Sorry.”

“Shouldn’t concern- I just saved your sorry ass, punk. I think I deserve an explanation as to why I have to spend my vacation lecturing a teenager on how not to drown,” Iron Man crossed his arms. “You tell Happy about your friendly neighbourhood fun all the time anyway, what makes this one any different?”

He gulped.

“Underoos?”

Iron Man’s foot tapped vigorously in the air.

“Brevity is the soul of the wit, kid, but you really need to speak up.”

Peter stiffened at the sudden ringing of a phone.

“Parker.”

His teeth sank fervently upon his lower lip. Straightening his back hurt more than it should have.

_Ah, fuck it._

“Sorry for the trouble!” He hollered, hoping it came off as an actual yell rather than a yelp (though he figured it was the latter) as he swung hastily into the distant trees, fingers fumbling to put on his mask and answer the call at the same time, because god knows what else would happen if he didn’t.

*****

He didn’t know whether to feel mad, miffed or mystified by the fact that Mr. Stark saw the need to track his suit. If Richard ever caught wind of this, Peter would never hear the end of it.

Which was why, the navigation system was removed completely from the suit that night, along with Training Wheels Protocol, Baby Monitor Protocol and all other infantile restrictions synced in the its software. Peter trusted Richard would balk at the idea of someone other than himself tracking his son, so this was all to appease Richard when he eventually found out. Definitely not because of some childish indignance Peter apparently still harboured. Absolutely not.

*****

“So, uh, Suit Lady, where are we?”

“We are currently in the most secure facility on the Eastern Seaboard. The Damage Control Deep Storage Vault.”

Peter groaned. “How long?”

“Sadly, the door will remain closed till morning.”

Peter buried his face in his hands. “Richard is going to _kill_ me.”

*****

He studied the self-scribbled chart in detail for the umpteenth time, stomach laid flat on one of the crates and arms propping his chin up, legs swinging behind him in tandem with his heartbeat. At the top written in uppercase was: _Vulture Guy steals from DoDC warehouse to create weapons_. Rough sketches of the items he saw were peppered over either sides of the paper, with arrows linking them back to the indigo core he used to keep the paper from flapping.

Peter cocked his head to the side. “Hey, Karen, we still got footage of those weapon baddies I fought three nights before?”

“We would if you hadn’t deactivated Baby Monitor Protocol.”

“But if I were to reactivate it, that night would still be in record, right?”

“I believe so, yes,” Karen replied, though the disapproving lilt to her tone remained fully perceptible.

“I have a tracker phone and one sassy suit. What could possibly go wrong?” Peter snorted, taking off the mask in one swift tug. “We’ve got all night to work with anyway.”

*****

 **_**dickparker:** _ ** _Dealing of weapons involves explosive Chitauri core. Bring back to base._

 **_**pp:** _ ** _Be there by sunrise, sir._

*****

Dull brown eyes drifted listlessly along the horizon, mildly noting the incessant waves rocking against concrete. He imagined being thrown into the ripples again, this time to drown for real because obviously, Iron Man wasn’t going to save him now. Serves him right.

“Previously on Peter Screws the Pooch, where you were suddenly rendered mute by the mere presence of a suit, I expected you to stay _away_ from this shit. Instead, I find you sticking your little nose where it doesn’t belong and sticking a ferry full of _people_ with what you perceive to be an endless supply of webs,” Iron Man’s flippant tone grated against Peter’s eardrums. “You’re lucky they held out till I arrived, you know that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what’s more!” Iron Man’s hands flung upwards in an agitated fashion. “You hacked a multi-billion dollar suit and removed all the boundaries I set for you. For what? To prove you’re actually capable of teenage rebellion?”

Peter felt razor-sharp nails dig into palms, knuckles straining in an effort to keep from trembling. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s just, I thought I could observe a little longer before they dealt their weapons but the FBI showed up and I got shocked ‘cause people were suddenly killing each other and-”

“Yeah, I called the FBI, genius.” 

Peter blinked. “What? Why would you do that?”

“Because that’s supposed to be their _job_.”

“But it was my mission!” Peter raised his voice, a sudden flash of hot anger bursting through his veins. He was going to be flayed alive because some guy thought it was okay to meddle in his missions. Some guy decided Peter couldn't handle this and called freaking F.B.I. Richard wouldn't even consider that fact. He was going to put it all on Peter, because honestly, he should have known better. Peter could picture him all too perfectly, creased brows and folded arms, reprimanding him on the first major failure he’d committed in a long time.

“Your _mission_ now, huh?” Iron Man roared with equal intensity. “And all those people on board, was that your mission too? Then if they died, that’s going to be all on you. And if you died? I think that’s on me.”

At the back of his mind, Peter knew he should have felt gratified. However, with red tinting his vision and unfiltered rage clouding his mind, all he could spit back was, “Stop thinking that then. Nothing about me is on you. I’ve been doing this even before you, sir.”

“That is absolutely-”

“If you actually cared, you’d actually be here!” Peter was tired of this. He was tired of this song and dance, this act of care and love masked by cutting words and belt on wood. Peter was tired of being the silly golden boy restrained by strings of one puppeteer. Two now, apparently.

“Nothing on me? Nothing at all?” Tony Stark came storming out of the suit, arms stretched wide and a sneer etched on his face enough to make Peter curl in on himself. “You know, everyone thought I was mad to recruit some teenager with serious height issues, and I guess I probably was. But Spiderman’s on my team, so guess what? If anything happened to him, even if it’s a scratch, slash or stab, it’s going to be my fucking duty to take care of his ungrateful ass.”

Peter was very decidedly not tired anymore. Instead, he was terrified.

*****

It’s my duty, because unlike you, I take care of my family _._

_Peter’s fingers dug deeper into his blistered palms, lips wobbling haplessly as pushed back the barricade of tears threatening to crack through. Richard was standing in front of his bowed head, belt firmly in hand, “Another tear I see on your face, Peter, and I’ll make sure this belt covers every single inch of your body. I don’t care if you can’t walk. I don’t care if you’re beaten to pulp. I don’t care if you’re hungry, thirsty or just tired: Parker men don’t cry.”_

_Each stroke came like fire on his huddled form, and they never ended, even as his lips bled from excessive chewing, even as his cheeks trembled at the effort of holding back tears. Peter couldn’t help but bend his arms over his head, choking back whimpers, praying to whatever god that would listen, begging for everything to just stopstopstopstopstop-_

_*****_

When Peter blearily came to, he was quaking shamelessly beside Mr. Stark who had this strangely distraught look on his face. He, too had hunkered down to Peter’s level, hand hovering at an awkward distance between them.

“Kid?”

An involuntary shudder ran across Peter’s spine. He let his face plop down between his knees, heaving in deep breath after breath, fingers flexing to relieve the stiffness in his joints as he forced himself to think about anything but how risible he must seem now.

“I… you okay, kid?”

Peter shook his head emphatically, face still hidden between his knees.

“What is it?”

And, oh, Peter _hated_ the concern seeping in Mr. Stark’s tone. It’d be easier if he was still mad.

“Please take away your suit,” His muffled voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I can't. Please.”

_God, he was so pathetic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ;)


	8. Keep Saving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii sorry for the wait!!! You know how procrastination gets ;) Anyways hope you enjoy~

Time haled by like clouds floating in currents of endless blue overhead. The city was, as usual, in its full glory - all hustle and bustle, crowds lingering in shops and emerging with hands full of purchases. Sunset was no deterrent for the busy streets of New York. Red and orange hues glinted off windowpanes and skyscrapers, casting a tepid radiance upon the cityscape he was oh-so familiar with.

“Hey look, there’s Spidey!” An obviously pre-pubescent voice squeaked into the air.

Phones materializing from bags and purses, all poised frantically towards the building Spiderman was perched atop. Spiderman gave his wide-eyed crowd a casual salute, bolstering their moods considerably, seeing as how they crowed in delight. People were shouting now, each pitching in ideas for Spiderman to do a double backflip, to swing from one building to another, to give them a peace sign.

Spiderman obliged with a grin behind his mask.

Peter obliged with a tear through his heart and an aching in his soul.

_So this is what you are? Your city’s little clown, because if they want a little fun, who are you to refuse?_

“Spiderman! You’re my hero!”

“Spiderman! Shoot your webs at that tree over there!”

“Spiderman! What happened to your other suit?”

Peter winced. _Still a sore spot._

Mr. Stark had shrugged it off like it wasn’t worth anything (like _he_ wasn’t worth anything), mumbling something about moody teenagers and being too old for this shit. He remembered being sent back in an over-sized shirt and Hello Kitty pants, remembered crashing into his wretched couch as he forced back tears, palms shoved painfully against his trembling eyelids. He remembered tossing and turning that night, sleep refusing him reprieve as he anticipated Richard’s reaction to his utter, utter failure. He remembered Richard’s unexpected laughter that came instead, mocking him with a gusto he had never seen in years.

_You worthless, worthless child. I thought I was going to have to be the one to pull you away from Stark, maybe with a little tarnish on the man’s reputation related to you, but you! You ruined it for yourself, Peter, you really did. I didn’t even have to do any of the work!_

Peter felt his innards rankle harshly.

Spiderman, however, felt nothing at all as he waved it off with ease, even sparing his audience a mysterious wink as he swung off into the distance.

*****

Peter had every intent to spend the rest of his evening curled under heaps of blankets with a blessed cup of tea between his hands. Sadly, luck never seemed to register much of his intentions.

He contemplated ignoring the persistent door-knocking, before realising that whoever it was had been at it for more than ten minutes and wasn’t going to leave any time soon. Sighing, he staggered over to the door, a clipped ‘I’m busy’ ready at the tip of his tongue.

What came out instead was, “MJ?”

She stood there, her arms folded and eyes narrowed in typical MJ fashion, a light purse evident in her lips. “Took you long enough, jerk.”

“H-how- what? How do you know I _live_ here?”

“You study in Midtown, dork. Just because you’re not physically in school doesn’t mean it doesn’t have any records.” MJ pushed past Peter without even asking, face scrunching up upon inspecting the state of his room.

“You _hacked_ Midtown’s databases to get my address?” Peter felt a little faint. While he logically knew that he was officially registered under the name of Peter Fitzpatrick so there was absolutely no way the school could associate him with Richard, the fact that MJ, a mere teenager as old as he was could get a hold of such information was… disturbing. To put it mildly.

“Nothing so drastic. I just asked.”

_That’s worse._

“So.” MJ flicked her piercing gaze over to him.

“So?” Peter hoped his voice wasn’t cracking as hard as he thought it was.

“Not quite Peter Jones, eh?” The smirk she sported was one of total triumphant.

“It’s a middle name,” Peter squeaked, hastily herding himself into the kitchen, hands fumbling to make his uninvited guest a customary cup of coffee. He felt MJ shift awkwardly before eventually coming to stand behind him.

“So why are you here, then?” He finally asked, his back still turned to her even though the coffee was more than ready.

_Also, why the hell did you want to know where I live? How much do you know already? You’re supposed to just be the weird but nice girl of 7/11. Who should never appear in this apartment. Oh, dear god, are you a spy? Please don’t be a spy._

“I have a friend,” She lightly picked the paper cup from Peter’s hands. “Probably originated from the mother who breeds all people with ingenuity and idiocy in one breath.”

He furrowed his brows. “And that means…?”

“That means you’ll both hit it off like pineapple on pizza, and I want you to meet him,” Her words came out a muttered rush, feet bouncing upwards onto her toes, though her eyes remained dead to Peter’s face.

“Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza at _all_. Who puts fruit on pizza, MJ?” Peter deflected, becausemeeting new people wasn’t really his thing. More new people meant that there would be more people who could link his identity to Richard, which meant that he was endangering the two remaining souls of the Parker family and _a_ _lso_ the lives of those who met him. He shouldn’t do that. He _couldn’t_. “Tastes all icky and stupidly sweet on what’s supposed to be heavenly tomato and cheese. But not that you can’t like pineapple on pizza, ‘cause obviously you can like whatever you want to and-”

“Dude,” MJ interrupted dryly. “He’s coming over to the store tomorrow after four. For a paired science project.”

“See, _paired_ ,” Peter gestured for MJ to sit on his couch, he himself opting for the multipurpose table not far from it. “You can’t ask another person for help if it’s paired, right?”

MJ raised one eyebrow. “Paired means you get to source information together. Have you never _been_ to a school at all?”

_Not since I was six._

Peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Just get your dumb ass down those couple of blocks,” MJ drained the last of her coffee. “Socialising sucks, but you got to have at least a little.”

The fact that MJ was saying that made something in Peter crumble a little.

“Look, MJ, I’m sorry, but I'm not really sure if-”

“Also, I need your help as a mediator of sorts.”

_Damn, she’s playing that card._

“Ned keeps yapping on about gamma radiation and half-lives, and I have literally no basic clue what he’s trying to tell me. So we’re kind of stuck and it's our final grade before the actual exam. I need a dork translator and you’re less of a dork than Ned.” MJ seemed to know exactly what she was doing in telling Peter that, her tone matter-of-fact and even a little smug.

His teeth sank into the tongue sliding hesitantly between them.

“...less only by a hair, though.”

The snide afterthought was what sealed Peter’s decision in the end.

******

Ned Leeds was an absolute wonder. As predicted, they got along right from the start. The awkward stammering of introductions and small talk prevailed at first, of course, but with MJ’s dry wit coupled with Ned’s passion for all things science, the evening soon found itself nestling deeply into Peter's inner list of good things that happened in his life. He never thought bouncing ideas off another person could be so… fun.

_Ben told you it would be fun. But you never listened, did you?_

Peter shook his head. He couldn’t be thinking about Ben anymore. He had gotten over it. _Richard_ had made him over it. Shoving down the distracting memory of himself refusing Ben each time he volunteered to be his ‘study buddy’, his attention shifted to Ned’s exuberant chatter instead.

What he heard almost gave him a heart attack right there and then.

“Spiderman _saved_ those people on Staten Ferry, man! There were videos and shit and it was so damn cool. Did you see the one where he was pulling the ripping ship together with just his webs and bare hands?”

“Couldn’t have missed it. It was on the news, Ned.”

“I _know_ , MJ, but did you see the one that went viral on YouTube?”

“Why would I subject myself to a blurrier version of a superhero mess up?”

Mess up. MJ thought he was a mess up.

_And why should that surprise you?_

Peter heard someone choke out a whimper. It was only when Ned and MJ turned to him- both with questioning looks in their eyes- that he realised that it was _his_ choked whimper.

_Pathetic. Insolent. Fool._

“A little saliva stuck in my throat.” His voice wasn’t shaking. It wasn’t.

Ned, thank the stars and all the gods above it, nodded as if it was the most right thing in the world and went on to discuss the amazing phenomenon of nuclear fusions and fissions. Peter’s head slowly churned back to science mode as he pitched in any minute detail Ned might have left out in their drafted project outline.

The rest of the session consisted mainly of Peter stubbornly ignoring the eerily thoughtful expression dancing on MJ’s features, ignoring the irritable chant of _She knows_ clammering within him.

*****

That night, when Peter wondered, whatever would happen to Toomes and his cronies now that Richard wasn’t up their necks, a pang of s _omething_ washed over him in a sudden rush.

_With great power comes great responsibility, Peter. Never forget that._

He investigated. And found himself appalled, fingers quivering uncontrollably above the tracking device planted just before Vulture almost ripped him to pieces on the ship.

Midtown High. Vulture Guy was heading for Midtown High.

_Be responsible, Peter._

He was responsible. Always had been. Probably why his apartment was left empty with nary a suit in sight under a matter of minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reaching the end. Thank you, also, for going through your lives because every hurdle is a battle and you're bravely going through that everyday, so know that your efforts, however small you might think, are appreciated deeply. Have a lovely weekend, guys!


	9. Keep Scaring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleasant day, folks! I'm posting all three chappies at the same time today, because it honestly wouldn't feel right to not post three at once. Enjoy~

In all honesty, this shouldn’t have been half as terrifying as it felt. Peter had been through worse than this. His bare flesh had been carved in the absence of anesthesia, his limbs enhanced for his own protection. He had been starved, mauled and crushed under the heels of his father’s experiments, only to be forced up the day after to resume similar treatment.

Being stuck under a pile of collapsed rubble was nothing compared to all that. He could lift it off his back, no big deal.

That is, if he wasn’t busy reminding himself how to breathe like a normal human being. His breaths stuttered at each heave he took, a concerning wheeze rending through his lungs. His senses caught the scent of mouldy water and splintered debris, tasted the bitter tang of concrete dusting his lips.

_I keep you alive, because it’s my duty._

Oh god, if Peter died here, Father was legitimately going to kill someone. Not just kill-kill, but actual cleave-all-organs-out-of-the-body-kill. He’d seen him do it before to Ben’s murderer. He’d seen the blood slowly trickle down the man's chin, seen Richard halve every single organ he could find in the man’s body, seen the life leaving the poor man's eyes in a single tormented moan.

 _Look what you’ve made me do,_ he’d said. _All this work, because you couldn’t keep Ben alive._

Peter’s breathing hiked to a pace he no longer held control over.

Okay. Bad brain. Think of something nice, would you?

_And if you died? I think that’s on me._

That’s even worse, brain. Why think of _him_ now.

Then, as if the sentient form of Sherlock Holmes himself had come to yell sense into him, Peter’s eyes flared open in a moment of sharp realisation.

Mr. Stark. Brooklyn. Avengers Tower. Mr. Hogan was moving boxes when Peter called.

The _plane._

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Peter wasted no time in pushing the hundred tonnes of building material off his weight. Who had time for shaky breaths now? If Peter had to push through this entire fiasco with anxiety clinging at his sides, then so be it.

Because of power and responsibility and all that jazz.

******

So the good news was, Vulture Guy had no intention of blowing up or terrorizing Midtown High. Apparently, he had a daughter. Go figure.

On the flip side, the bad news was, Peter Benjamin Parker had somehow ended up flying breathlessly from someone else’s boot three hundred feet off the ground. ( _again.)_

“Mr. Stark,” Peter muttered under his breath. “You owe me _big_ time.”

*****

Sometimes Peter wondered, if the world had simply run out of brain cells for his poor villains.

The blazing heat rose desperately, as if afraid that if it did not escape fast enough, it would never succeed in scorching his already charred skin. Some of the lethal flames swarmed eagerly by his feet, others loomed ominously over his staggering form.

Peter hoisted the burning chunk of metal and man over his shoulders, because seriously, he’s been through more heat than this. If he could survive needles of fire drilling holes into his flesh in a contained cell for who knows how long, then he could - and would - survive this.

A simple experiment, Richard had proclaimed. To make him stronger.

_Thanks for that, Pops._

He trudged on, letting wisps of fire and smoke whisper threats into his hair, his eyes and his ears until finally. Finally, he reached the end of the haunting brigade. Finally, he let Vulture Guy slip from his shoulders with a satisfying thud.

Vulture Guy considered him with that much bemusement before he hacked up a lung, causing Peter to leap forward only to be dismissed with a languid wrist-flick.

“You’ve done enough, punk. Just get me arrested and go find a real job now that you’re done, eh? An accountant sounds good, right?”

Peter raised an eyebrow behind his mask. They really had no brain cells at all, did they.

*****

The adrenaline high he had been running on crashed fully once he saw Mr. Hogan’s flashlights flicker below, replaced only by aching shivers and chattering teeth.

“Spiderman?”

Daredevil. Why the hell was he here.

“What do you mean, why the hell am I here. You’re in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Damn. Had he swung so far for so long?

“Evidently so.”

Was he saying things out loud now?

“Yes, you are,” Strange, how one firm voice could appease his rampaging nerves. Even more so, when gloved hands gently wrapped themselves over his shoulders.

He melted entirely, clinging onto the chiseled muscles as if his life depended on it, listened to the soft murmurs telling him to just take one deep breath, hold and let go. He listened, because following orders was so much easier than thinking. It was so much easier, until Peter cognised that he was cowering in the _devil’s_ fucking arms. 

Peter jerked away with vigour.

“Sorry.” His head tilted downwards.

“Don’t be.”

They shuffled back a couple steps.

“You’re bleeding.” Daredevil noted.

Peter nodded.

“You need medical?”

Peter shook his head.

“You sure?”

“I heal fast.”

Daredevil shifted. “If you say so. You’re fine, then?”

“Y-yeah.”

Another shift. A sigh. “You know my hearing catches heartbeats, right?”

“Are we comparing superpowers now, Horns?” Peter tried for spontaneous humour. Didn't work.

Daredevil’s lifted his head skywards. “Look, Spiderman, I know your heartbeat from miles away. I also know you’re pretty young for this business, but you can always-”

Whatever reassuring words Daredevil tried to convey fell on deaf ears because Peter wasn’t listening anymore. He was busy being hit by another set of realisations. He was so _dumb._ Of _course_ Daredevil could recognise heartbeats, could pick him out of any crowd if he wanted to.

_But he hadn’t._

“Hey. Spiderman. You-”

He was endangering Daredevil just by _being_ here. If Richard ever knew of this, ever heard of Spiderman and Daredevil fighting crime in the same alleyway, he would come hurtling like the vicious mother hen that he was, malicious intent and tactical devices in tow ready to burn Daredevil’s identity to the ground. Because Tony Stark was debatably untouchable, but Daredevil? He was just another vigilante in a vibranium suit.

“-okay?”

“Sorry. I just. I need to go.” Peter did what he did best, and webbed himself away.

The agonizing twinge, choked breaths and trembling hands returned as if they had never left at all.

*****

It was a miracle he ever managed to reach his apartment that night.


	10. Keep Hurt

The next morning greeted him with a numb ache in his ~~heart~~ bones.

_It’s all over. Nothing else’s going to happen now._

Or so he thought.

*****

When Mr. Hogan arrived early in the morning with an invitation upstate, Peter had slammed the door so fiercely in his face, the screws to its hinges almost came loose.

_Become an Avenger? Whoop-de-fucking-no._

*****

When he finally left his apartment three hours later, it was to don his suit partly for the safety of his borough, partly for the peace of his own mind.

Peace of mind, however, remained questionable as he tried to defuse the tension between two squabbling kids. Apparently one had stolen a big red ball from the other. Normally, Spiderman wouldn’t care less, except these doofuses had been fighting _in the middle of the road_. They hadn’t even had the sense to stay by the side. They were lucky the truck didn’t ram straight into their small bodies.

Kids these days. Sheesh.

*****

MJ approached him that evening.

This wasn’t a novel occurrence, sometimes she’d poke her head out or flip him the bird when he passed by her shop. Except, all those other times, she had approached him as Peter Jones, and not with a quizzical look etched on her face.

“Spiderman.”

“How may I help you, miss?” Peter consciously lowered his tone by a couple notches.

MJ crossed her arms, face smoothing into something more nonchalantly MJ.

“I saw the morning news today.”

“I see,” Peter nodded as solemnly as he could.

She rolled her eyes. “So you caught Adrian Toomes. Congratulations.”

“Um, thank you?”

“He had a daughter, you know. She studies in Midtown, we call her Liz. She’s our Decathlon Team Captain. Best we’ve ever had.”

Peter felt his throat run dry.

“She and her mom had to move to Oregon. The dad didn’t want them to be there for his trial.”

Peter always admired MJ for being able to state facts so bluntly, even if he had to be on the receiving end. She said the things that needed to be said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no,” MJ waved a hand in front of his eyes, her tone surprisingly gentle. Or well, gentler than Peter was used to anyway. “I’m not telling you this to antagonize you, Spiderman. Just wanted you to know that sometimes bad things happen as a consequence of good things.”

 _Gee, MJ, I never knew._

“And none of that should be your fault.”

Peter’s head snapped up.

“Stay safe out there, Spidey.” She sauntered back to her store with not so much as a nod his way.

His heart promptly skipped a beat.

_Under no circumstance was Richard ever to catch wind of MJ’s existence. Never. Never ever._

*****

His apartment smelt of cheap bourbon and metal.

_Oh no. Oh no, no._

The feared sight of Father leaning against his couch, whiskey in one hand and chains in the other was enough to send Peter stripping his suit and plummeting to his knees.

He knew the drill.

“So.” Father was very obviously drunk. “You arrested the culprit, even though I never told you to. And you burned Tony Stark’s plane as well. Hurrah for you!”

His feet padded dangerously to Peter’s knelt form by the door, before one came to rest on his folded knees. Dull gold liquid dribbled all the way from his hair to his hands and to his suit on the floor. The bourbon bottle rang a shrill shriek as it burst by his side.

“How about I set you on fire now, hm?” His fingers carded through Peter’s now damp locks. “Since you were so happy to drench yourselves in flames last night. You must _miss_ the smoky heat, don’t you?”

An embarrassing yelp left Peter’s lips as Father yanked him up with a fistful of hair.

“We can make an arrangement for that, if you like?”

Peter gulped.

“Do you want that, Peter.”

“No, sir.” The quiver in his voice came on with full force.

“Then why do you do this?” Father hissed. “Why do you push yourself into such dangers, even though I’ve warned you time and time again, to keep yourself fucking alive?”

_Because it has to be done. Because I don’t matter. Because I want to meet Ben._

“Tell me why, Peter,” His fists grated against Peter’s scalp.

Peter hadn’t a second to reply, for he was flung backwards so fast and so harshly, his nose collided with the now stained wall. Blood leaked from his teeth, staining cold lips with an all too familiar shade of carmine. Then came the expected fists shoveling against his chin, the heels stomping against his chest, the now shattered glass scraping against his knees.

Drunk and anger never bode well for Peter. Never had, and never will.

He accepted it, though. All the anger, all the rage, because at the end of the day, Richard was just afraid, wasn’t he? Afraid to lose him, just as he had Ben. So this was okay, because at least this way, Peter could be sure _someone_ wanted him alive. Alive enough, anyway.

He didn’t let himself flinch once throughout the session. He wasn’t allowed to.

_This was okay._

A haze of wound, sweat and choked back sobs later, cold copper chains clasped themselves all the way from his torso to his bloodied feet, curling tight over his slight frame in various complicated loops. Its lock clicked in place over his neck.

“Maybe this way, you’ll finally have the fucking sense to stay indoors.”

_This was okay._

The screws to his hinges clattered off with one final slam.

Peter flinched.

_This was okay._

_*****_

_Just wanted you to know that bad things happened as a consequence of good things. And none of that is your fault._

What a joke, MJ. What. A. Joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't bear to stop here. Couldn't let Petey-pie wallow in so much pain for too long. ;)


	11. Keep Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene that made me start this fic in the first place. Enjoy.

Peter wisely kept all thoughts of _it’s all over now_ out of his mind. Because seriously, when were things ever really over for him?

*****

“Geez, kid, I knew you had money problems-”

Peter’s eyes sprang wide. How long had he been out? An hour? Two?

-but you should really get this door fixed.”

Mr. Stark. That was Mr. Stark’s polished shoes clicking behind his door, Mr. Stark’s fingers idly caressing the edges of his wobbly hinges, Mr. Stark’s _voice_ commenting on his half-demolished door.

_Oh no. God, please no._

“I mean, really, it’s just four screws that came off, you could easily- What the _fuck_.”

He was mad, wasn’t he. He was mad because Peter hacked the suit. He was mad because Peter destroyed his plane. He was mad because Peter refused the invitation. He was mad, and Peter was in chains, and there was nothing Peter could do to stop him from-

“Kid, what the hell?” Arms were reaching towards him.

Peter scrambled away as best as he could with his shackled limbs. “I’m sorry- please sir, I’m sorry- I can’t- don’t do it again. Please please please-”

He was babbling. God, he was babbling. Father hated babbling, he was going to be in so. much. trouble.

The feet stumbled back, dropping to a crouch. “I’m- I won’t do anything to you, Peter.” Empty palms spread open. “See? Nothing in my hands. Harmless.”

A fraught whimper tore its way to his throat and, oh no was that tears in his eyes? Was he _crying_? He couldn’t cry- not now, not here. He couldn’t cry, because-

**_**Parker men don’t cry.** _ **

Another shot of hot panic leapt forth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- _please-_ ”

**_**Stop your blithering at once!** _ **

“Shit, okay, um- just breathe for me, yeah?” A different voice. “Alright, deep breaths now.”

_Deep breaths? His nose wasn’t working, how the hell was he supposed to-_

“It’s fine, kid. Just focus on me. Inhale.”

Peter inhaled.

“Great- good job,” The voice didn’t sound too bad. “Now hold your breath. Five-”

Peter’s breath slowed to meet the voice’s paced counting.

“-one. Good. Now exhale.”

Peter exhaled.

“Brilliant,” The voice praised. “You’re doing brilliant. Let’s do this one more time. C’mon, buddy, inhale.”

_Brilliant. He was doing brilliant._

Peter would have laughed, if he wasn’t so engaged in not accidentally breathing his goddamn lungs out of his mouth.

*****

When Peter next came to, he blearily registered that there was no painful lump under his chin, no rusted metal pinning his arms and twisting his legs over one another.

He was free now.

_But for how long?_

_*****_

There was a time when Peter would have swooned at the thought being anywhere within a foot of Tony Stark. He was an engineer, a builder, a hero who protected the world from everything that mattered. He was everything Peter could ever hope to become.

It was one of the few things Peter ever had the nerve to fight his father over when he was younger.

_Why did he ever bother?_

“Oh. Kid. Hi.” Mr. Stark slipped into view, a cup of something in hand. “Breathing okay?”

Peter found that nodding hurt immensely.

“The bandages hurt? Too tight? I might have messed up the one on the side a bit.” The cup was settled somewhere on his worktable. “Nose healed fine? I can’t really tell. Your hands-”

“I’m fine, sir,” Peter sank deeper into his couch. “Healing factor works wonders.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Was Mr. Stark gritting his teeth? He had been angry, hadn’t he?

Peter gulped. “Sir, I-”

“Uh-uh. No. Me first.” Mr. Stark raised a hand to silence him. “First off, I’m either Tony or Mr. Stark to you.Tony rights still stands. Secondly-” His tone dipped a low curve.

Peter knew the question before it left his lips.

“-who did this?”

Peter buried his sore chin against his chest, mind racing for a dozen possibilities he could think of happening after this debacle. He could reply, and risk hosting a fulgent Stark versus Parker showdown. He could stay quiet, and risk Mr. Stark’s wrath right at this instant and boy, wasn’t he just ready for that.

“Hey,” Mr. Stark hunkered down till he was suddenly within his line of sight, both hands coming to rest mildly on Peter’s scarred knees. “S’ alright, Pete’. You can tell me.”

Mr Stark’s eyes were really brown. It wasn’t the sort of sweet chocolate brown most people tended to have, nor was it the burnt sienna associated with Richard. Mr Stark’s eyes were a rich mix between caramel and earthy hues, concern brimming from the corners of calculating umber. The way his eyes were, Peter could stare for so long till he finally felt grounded enough to ask, “Are you still mad at me?”

The warm soil melted into something akin to rusted iron.

_Bad question, Parker. Bad, bad question._

“I’m not. Never was, actually. Should probably have come down here earlier to let you know that, huh,” That was way better than the backhanded slap he was expecting. “In fact, I’m more proud of you than you know.”

“R-really?” _Then why do you look so angry?_

“Yes Peter, really,” The multi-dollar smirk felt so good when directed at him. “You know what else would make me prouder?”

“If I swore never to jump on planes again?”

“Nice try, punk,” A chuckle of disbelief. “Seriously. Which sick fuck did this to you?”

*****

If Peter saw moist glistening from Mr. Stark’s eyes when he finally choked out the details in two clipped sentences, he made no notice of it, instead centering his attention on the strong arms pulling him in a tender embrace. With it, only one message was clear.

_I’m sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoped I did our boys justice? Thanks for stopping by for a read! Means the world to me. <3000


End file.
